


call it a day

by words_unravel



Series: hurt/comfort bingo prompt fills (2010 card) [3]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/pseuds/words_unravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[<i>prompt:</i> <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/"></a><b>hc_bingo</b> - rent boys/girls]<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	call it a day

**Author's Note:**

> [ _warnings:_ mugging, reference to violence (non-graphic)]

* * *

  
Jon doesn't live in the best neighborhood, but he's gotten used to walking home after dark. The rent is cheap and it's less than a mile to the Starbucks where he works. It's always weird to him, how the crap neighborhood is always right next to the nice one.

Knocked out of his thoughts by the sound of a pained cry, Jon looks to his left, down the alley. A couple of guys are standing there with a third one on the ground. Jon knows that he shouldn't say anything, should just continue the block and a half to his apartment. He even turns his head away, looking down at his feet as they carry him past the alley. Two steps later, he sighs and spins back around.

Tugging his beanie further down around his ears and pushing his shoulders back, Jon stands up as tall as possible. Most of these guys are easy to bluff, just wanting easy cash and not a lot of trouble. Jon's short, but he's hoping that the winter coat he's wearing will make him look bigger, more bulky. With a sigh–god, this is so stupid–he steps around the corner and into the alley.

"Hey!"

He makes his voice as low and rough as possible. Heads turn towards him and he shouts again, pulling out his phone. Apparently it works and the two take off a second later. Jon keeps an eye out even as he moves toward the body on the ground. Squatting down, he puts a hand on the guy's shoulder. "You al–"

Before he can finish, the guy comes up swinging. A fist hits Jon in the chest and he's falling on his ass as the other boy scrambles upright, sliding back until he hits the wall.

"Fuck off, asshole," he snarls at Jon. "They took it all, so just–" His curse fades out as a pained look shoots across his face. He wraps a hand around his ribs, wincing. Jon doesn't move.

Jon notes that even with a bloody chin and the beginnings of a rather impressive black eye, the boy is pretty. Remnants of eyeliner make his big, brown eyes look even more striking. There's a split in his bottom lip, blood painting them bright red. His jeans are skin-tight, torn at the knee and the lavender hoodie hugs a slim torso.

His words hit Jon all of a sudden and he says dumbly, "Oh."

The kid–no, not really a kid, he's not more than a year or so younger than Jon–looks at him warily. A look flashes across his face, despair or weariness, Jon's not sure which, but it's gone a second later. He moves to sit further upright, wincing. A short gasp leaves a little cloud of white in the air and Jon realizes that he's cold, even with a coat, so his would-be rescuee has got to be freezing his balls off.

"Oh," Jon repeats. He stands up, dusting off the back of his jeans. There's a flinch as he steps over towards the wall, but the dark brown eyes widen when Jon offers a hand. "My place is a block away, if you'd like to clean up. I got some stuff you can put on your–" He waves a hand around his face, trailing off.

"What?" The kid smirks. It looks like it hurts his lip. "This looks doesn't bring all the boys to the yard?"

Jon snorts. "No, not really. Probably not the kind you want to attract anyway."

The kid looks startled at Jon's bluntness. He grins, the split in his lip cracking, and he curses, running a hand over it and coming back with a smear of red. There are scrapes across his knuckles and Jon stupidly thinks _Good, at least he tried to fight._ He shakes the thought away.

"Come on." He extends his hand a little further forward. "You should get that shit cleaned up. I've got cotton balls and peroxide."

The reluctance is still present, but the fear has receded and Jon counts that as a win. When the boy reaches out to take his hand, Jon counts that too.

"I'm Jon, by the way."

There's a moment's hesitation, then a quiet, "Brendon."

*

Jon can see the beginnings of bruising around Brendon's ribs when he comes out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips. Brendon is rail thin, skin pale and smooth. Jon looks away. A moment later, his gaze swings back and Brendon's look is appraising, knowing. Grabbing the pile of clothes on the back of the couch, Jon shoves them at Brendon. "Here, go put these on."

Brendon's about to protest, but his fingers make contact with the sweater that's on top of the pile. Brendon couldn't stop shivering all the way to the apartment, and by the time he'd gotten to the shower, his teeth were chattering loud enough that Jon had to wonder if it hurt. So he'd pulled out the old sweater from his first year of college. It's well-washed, worn and soft. It's still warm though and Brendon's protestations don't even make it past his lips.

There's no modesty and Jon turns away as Brendon drops his towel to start dressing. He moves into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "There's soup if you're hungry. It's my mom's recipe, so it's pretty hearty."

He hears the shuffle of bare feet over the tiles as he takes down a couple of bowls and sets them on the counter next to the stove. Stirring the pot, he drops the ladle as a hand slides around him. When it starts moving downwards, Jon turns abruptly and steps sideways. With a hand to his chest, he pushes Brendon back a step.

"What–" Jon can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. It matches the one under his hand. "What are you doing?"

There's a startled look on Brendon's face and a blush starts creeping over his cheeks as he stutters out, "I just thought–all this–" a hand indicates his clothes and the food on the stove, "–well, I. I can't really, um, pay you for–"

"Oh." Jon says, startled. Well, that makes sense, he guesses. Instead of commenting, he just presses firmly against Brendon's chest again and tells him to sit down and eat.

*

Dinner starts quietly, remaining awkwardness from before, but after a few minutes Brendon asks Jon about the guitar in the corner of the living room. From pop (Brendon's lean) to the classics (Jon's preference), the discussion continues until Jon looks over at the clock and nearly two hours have passed. Brendon stumbles to a stop, catching the movement and looking himself. They're bowls are long empty. Silence falls again and Brendon stumbles to his feet, grabbing their bowls and moving to the sink.

"Leave it," Jon says, but Brendon shakes his head. Squirting a bit of dish soap into the sink, he starts running the water. He stretches out and grabs the ladle on the stove. Jon scoots his chair back, rising.

"Brendon–"

"Just–" Brendon's shoulders are high and tense. "Just let me, okay?"

"Fine," Jon sighs. "At least let me dry."

Brendon throws a small grin over his shoulder. It's weird, he hadn't really noticed as they'd been talking over dinner, but now he can see the skin around Brendon's eye has darkened. There's a hiss as Brendon's hands sink into the hot water. Jon doesn't say anything, just grabs a towel and tosses it over his shoulder, moving to Brendon's other side.

When the last dish is put away, Jon hands Brendon the towel. Their hips are settled against the sink counter and Jon watches the careful way Brendon pats his hands dry. Brendon cracks a huge yawn a second later and embarrassed, lifts a hand to cover it.

"Sorry."

There's a speck of fresh blood that startles Jon, and he looks away. Pushing off the counter, he says, "I'll get you some blankets for the couch. That's okay, right?"

"Jon."

"And I think there's some antibiotic cream in the bathroom. I should have thought of it earlier, sorry–"

" _Jon_."

He swallows at the sound in Brendon's voice, stopping. "You should rest, Brendon."

There's a startled laugh from behind him and Jon finds that he hates the way Brendon's voice sounds when he says, "It's been a long time since someone's been this nice to me." Jon refuses to turn around. "But I really can't stay. Those guys took. Well–" there's another huff of laughter. It's not the amused kind. "Let's just say I need to bring something home besides my good looks, so."

"How much?" The question falls out of his mouth before Jon has time to think. This is stupid. He _knows_ this is stupid. "How much would you need?"

"No."

The word is so soft that Jon almost doesn't hear it. It's so soft that he ignores it, moving into the hallway and opening the closet door.

"Jon." He can see Brendon coming towards him from the corner of his eye. "I mean it–"

"What?" Keeping his face blank, Jon pulls a blanket from the closet, tugging another lighter one after it. He sets a clean sheet on top of that and holds it out. "My heater kind of sucks so, trust me, you'll need the extra blanket."

Brendon stares at him, but Jon doesn't say anything else. Finally, with a frustrated huff, Brendon grabs them and heads back to the couch. Jon turns, heading down the hallway and into his bedroom.

It takes a moment to find the little black fabric case, but eventually his fingertips trace the stiff edge. There's the sound of Velcro releasing its other half when he tugs on it. Pulling his hand out from under the mattress, he stares down at it. The case is slightly larger than an envelope. He opens it, running a thumb across the edge of the stack of bill inside. If he remembers correctly, there's a little over three hundred dollars inside.

 _So stupid_ , a voice in Jon's head whispers.

Jon stands up, closing the case.

*

At first, Brendon refuses to take it.

It's not until Jon says he'll follow Brendon, stand there and wait at his 'place of business', that Brendon finally flings himself down on the couch with a half-shouted _fine!_ He winces in pain, but the look is traded for another glower at Jon, who's holding the little black fabric case out to him. He finally leans forward and takes it out of Jon's hands.

Jon refuses to notice how hard Brendon makes sure that their fingers don't touch.

Their tableau stays silent except for the sound of the wind blowing outside. Almost like it's playing to the tune of their argument, the wind is fierce, picking up leaves and dirt and whipping it against the windows. Jon watches the skin at the corner of Brendon's eyes and his own shoulders drop when it finally relaxes. Brendon looks up at him and then over at the guitar in the corner.

"I can sing for my supper then, if you'll let me?" Brendon's fingers brush over the money case almost absently. "S'least I can do."

Although he shouldn't be, especially after their conversation at dinner, Jon is surprised that Brendon can play. He picks the guitar up and there's a tremble in Brendon's hands as he takes it from Jon. They stumble a little at first, but calm quickly. He plays a tune, one that Jon's can't place.

"Did you write that?"

Brendon bites his lip and it's not until Jon makes a little noise of concern that he lets it loose. Brendon ducks his head, but not before Jon sees the look of sadness in his eyes.

"No," Brendon responds softly. "A couple of friends of mine wrote it. A long time ago." His eyes lose a little focus and Jon knows he's lost in some memory. "A lifetime ago."

He finally looks back up at Jon. "There's lyrics, too. I can probably remember most of them." Jon is sure that Brendon can remember them perfectly, and he nods when Brendon asks, "Wanna hear 'em?"

Brendon opens his mouth and Jon's hands ache from the way he keeps them clenched for the next hour.

*

It doesn't really surprise Jon when he wakes up to Brendon slipping into his bed. Jon stops the hand sliding over his stomach, tightening his grip when Brendon whispers his name.

"Sleep," he whispers back. He reverses their positions, spooning up against Brendon's back and moving their joined hands to curl around Brendon's belly. The sweater is gone and Brendon's skin is smooth and cool in the air. Jon can feel individual ribs where his arm is resting and he curls in tighter. Jon knows it's probably hurting Brendon, but there's no complaint. Brendon just sighs and finally relaxes back into Jon.

Jon counts the breaths in and out, until Brendon eventually goes slack in his arms, asleep. It's a little while until Jon relaxes, but eventually his eyes slip closed.

*

Jon's alone when he wakes up and he stays there for a few minutes, still against the sheets. The space next to him is cool and even though he listens hard, the only sounds in the apartment are the normal building noises. Finally, he gets up. He putters around the bathroom and does the same in his room, telling himself that he did his good deed. That the evening didn't _mean_ anything; Brendon just took advantage of a nice gesture. And that that's all it really was from Jon, a nice gesture. He's nearly got himself convinced by the time he moves out of the bedroom and into the living room.

The sheet and blankets are folded neatly in the corner of the couch. Jon swallows a little too hard and puts them away. In the kitchen is a freshly brewed pot of coffee and a note on the table. A small, black fabric case sits next to it.

_Jon-_

Brendon's handwriting is strangely neat and Jon traces his name with the tip of a finger.

_I meant it when I said that this was the nicest anyone's treated me in a very long time, so I find myself unable to take your money. You should keep saving, there's a little music shop on Quartermaine that's pretty decent. They gave me a really good deal when I sold my guitar and they know what their stuff._

_Thanks again,_

_-B_

_PS: I did keep the sweater though. ~~it smelled like you~~ Sorry._

Jon hears the refrain of _so stupid_ in his head again as he grabs the money case and his keys.

He ignores it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [bingo master list (LJ)](http://prettykitty-fic.livejournal.com/15631.html)


End file.
